Without Him
by Nightfawkes
Summary: Chuck was on a plane...
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimers: Not mine. I just like their posable action parts.  
A/N: Scene addendum for 3x05. 'Cause we can.

WITHOUT HIM

Chuck was on a plane. Chuck was on a plane, flying to Paris. Chuck was on a plane, flying to Paris, to carry out a mission.

Without him.

Casey stalked through the Buy More, scattering green-shirts and nerds before him like leaves scattered before a gale. Casey was not a man prone to fits of anxiety, but he thought that maybe in this instance, he'd make an exception. Plane. Paris. Mission. _Without_ him.

There were so very many things that could go wrong. Chuck on his own – well it wasn't necessarily a recipe for disaster, but it was a pretty good bet. It didn't take an elaborate scenario, either - just start with the obvious. Chuck was going to Paris. Chuck did not speak French. Sure, the Intersect probably had it, but that was really no guarantee, now was it? What if Chuck got nervous, didn't flash, and ended up on the wrong side of the city from his hotel? And what if it was raining? Or there was a pack of wild dogs on the loose? Casey wouldn't be there.

Or what if Chuck made it to his hotel, but then a Ring operative was waiting for him in his room? Or what if it was a sultry vixen-type operative? Waiting at the bar? And tried to seduce him? Chuck was not always at his best when saying no to beautiful women, and in desperation he might try to look to the bartender for guidance. Casey wouldn't be there.

Or what if he didn't even try to say no? What if he got all caught up in the glamour and seduction of being a spy? What if the Ring operative was a Jill-doppelganger and asked him to run away with her and Chuck disappeared forever? Chuck would need someone to beat his ass to get his head back on straight. And Casey wouldn't be there.

Casey threw a glance at his watch, and clenched his jaw. It had been nearly three hours since Chuck's flight had taken off. On its way to Paris, and the mission. Without him.

Casey ducked into the back hallway, fishing his phone from his pocket as he headed for the break room. This place was like the unofficial Buy More epicenter. Small things with big consequences tended to happen in this off-kilter, meant-to-be-welcoming-but-mostly-just-creepy room. Walker's cell was already ringing as he ducked inside.

"Yeah?" Hmmm. Sarah was being curt. Bet pretty-boy Shaw was nearby.

"Any update on Chuck?" Casey kinda hated himself for asking, but… Three hours! Without him! Casey made a conscious effort to loosen his grip. He'd already cracked two cell phones that way. It seemed an odd expenditure peeve to have, but Beckman never seemed too thrilled to replace them.

"Relax, Casey," Sarah's voice was slightly stilted, and Casey revised his earlier opinion to Shaw definitely being close at hand. "He's doing fine." Fine? Doing fine? What does that even mean, doing fine? Chuck had a rather considerable issue with heights. What if being in a plane made him too afraid, and he lost control, and someone jostled him, and Chuck flashed, and hurt somebody before he could prevent it, and there was an air marshal on board, and they locked him up, and maybe threw him in the cargo bay where it was so cold, and maybe the dogs were on the plane… And Casey wouldn't be there!

Behind him, the break room door opened.

Casey spun around, lowering his phone from his ear as he contemplated cracking a skull for the intrusion.

"Hey… John," the hesitant voice of Morgan Grimes. The other Number One Man in Chuck's life. Hmm. "Uh, do you have a second? I need a favor."

A favor? He had to be kidding. Casey seriously had other things to be concerned about right now. Like, oh just for instance: Chuck, plane, Paris, mission… sans Casey. "Not interested," he said. He knew all about the power struggle currently going on in the Buy More. Honestly, it amused him to no end. Didn't mean he was going to stop worrying about Chuck to worry about the bearded wonder.

But then the little imp began to make a rather desperate, yet somewhat eloquent plea. And Casey got to thinking. Sure, he had no deep and abiding love for Grimes… but the tiny one _was_ Chuck's best friend. Chuck, who was on a plane. Flying to Paris to do a mission. Without him. Right.

So maybe even if he couldn't actually be with Chuck, he could still care for him by proxy. Maybe save the life and sanity of Chuck's little bestest buddy. Couldn't hurt to keep a foot in the door, there. And it was becoming glaringly obvious to Casey that he needed a distraction. Badly. Grimes just might hold the answer.

"Insurgents…"he growled. "I hate insurgents."

"Then this'll work out, I think".

What the hell, Casey figured. That crew of panty-waist idiots badly needed a good terrorizing anyway, and Colonel John Casey had more than a few tricks up his sleeves in that regard. Besides… this would probably be a lot of fun.

But as he followed Grimes to the storage cage to brain-storm, one thing was absolutely certain in Casey's mind. Chuck was never, _ever, _going out on a mission again.

Without him, that is.

THE END


	2. Chapter 2

When Casey slammed him up against the storage cage, Chuck sorta felt it was par for the course. It had been a while since he'd last been thrown around for his screw-ups, and so he figured he might be overdue. What made him a little anxious, however, was that no major transgressions immediately came to mind that might have set this off. Especially since the bigger man seemed not just off-handedly irritated, but genuinely, deeply furious in that unsettling internalized way of his. That way that spelled Real Big Trouble.

As Casey's hands flexed around Chuck's neck, Chuck began a desperate shuffle through his mental file of ready-made apologies. It was a risky move, trying to apologize for something when you didn't even know what you'd done wrong. But little spots were starting to dance at the corners of his vision, and his breath was making a strained sound as it whistled in and out of his lungs. Well, maybe he could just dust off one of his 'I'm really, really sorry buddy!' lines, and hope it made Casey hesitate long enough for Chuck to find out what was wrong. Or, failing that, at least give Chuck a chance to try and gather his dignity before facing his inevitable crushing defeat. But just as Chuck decided to either go for broke or start blacking out, Casey's grasp changed, and Chuck lost whatever words he had thought to find.

It began when the two large hands shifted from encircling Chuck's throat to cradling Chuck's face, a move that should have seemed less natural than it was. There was a thumb swipe over a cheekbone, a sharp glance from glacier-blue eyes, and then the hands slid back down Chuck's neck, and began their journey along the angles of his collarbone, sweeping over and around his left shoulder, and down the corded length of his arm. There was a pause at his left hand, fingertips brushing against his own in a split-second caress that Chuck wasn't even sure he felt. Then the hands came back to the shoulder and began again, this time travelling downwards.

That dexterous, knowing touch read his ribs like a blind man reads Braille, and somehow the pressure gentled in just the right spot as it ghosted over where Panzer had sucker-punched him in the gut. Chuck blinked, suddenly realizing his gaze was locked – hypnotized by Casey's hands as he watched them touch him. As he watched them slowly, methodically, and relentlessly bare him to the other man's understanding. A thumb swept over Chuck's hipbone, and he could have sworn he felt the worn pad of it through his herder shirt, through his under shirt – maybe even through his skin.

How long had they been in here… a minute? Two, maybe? Or forever? Chuck couldn't find a frame of reference in his stunned mind. Casey finished canvassing the left side of Chuck's body, straightened from his crouch, and then began all over again with the right collarbone. As those hands trailed down Chuck's forearm, circled his wrist, and then traced over his palm, Chuck finally found his voice.

"Hey, Casey…" his mouth seemed dry, and his voice didn't sound quite right. "What are you _doing?_"

"I," came the low rumble, "am looking for the wound."

Well. That sure wasn't what Chuck had expected to hear. "Uh… say what now?"

"The wound, Chuck." Casey's palms were mapping Chuck's vertebrae. "The injury. The damage. The angry, ragged gash in your skin that I'm ninety-seven-percent certain you're hiding from us because you're afraid we'd think you a failure."

Down the long, lean thigh. Did it tremble under the touch? Did Casey notice?

"I, uh…" Chuck swallowed. "I sorta hate to break it to you, but you're not gonna find one."

Casey paused for a moment, one hand wrapped around Chuck's ankle, and then rose to his feet once again.

"You'll understand I find that hard to believe."

"Nah, really it wasn't that bad. I wasn't shot. I wasn't stabbed." Chuck grinned a bright, self-effacing grin. "They just poisoned me, instead."

The reaction was instantaneous. Casey's hands snapped out, and grabbed both Chuck's shoulders in a near-bruising grip.

"Okay, so not funny!" Chuck squeaked in surprise. "I get it – not funny!"

And then Casey pulled Chuck in, and wrapped him in a hug that might have been crushing – if there hadn't been the finest of tremors running through Casey's arms and down his spine.

"You idiot," Casey muttered into Chuck's hair. "You godforsaken thrice-damned _moron._"

Chuck leaned into the embrace, and relaxed. "Hey," he said quietly. "Hey now, it's alright. I'm okay." He stroked gently up and down Casey's spine, willing the tension to leave the man's frame. And maybe his soul too, but Chuck figured that'd probably have to wait for another day.

They didn't stand there long. These raw moments were never easy on Casey, and Chuck had early learned to make allowances for that. Casey pressed a quiet kiss to that spot behind Chuck's ear he favored, and then slowly stiffened and stepped away. Chuck simply let him go, and smiled.

"You know, you're really going to have to tell me what on earth you and Morgan were up to while I was away. And why."

Casey grunted – number 18, which really was best translated by the self-satisfied smirk that always accompanied it.

"There might have been rain. Or dogs. I needed a distraction."

Chuck's brow furrowed in confusion, and then he had to step quick to catch up with Casey's long strides as they headed back onto the sales floor.

"A distraction? A distraction from whom? Or what? Why? Dogs? … And with Morgan? Seriously?? "

"You should really ask Lester about it all."

Chuck stopped dead, at the corner of HDTVs and Anime, and tried his damndest to make sense out of _that._

Casey just chuckled, and kept on walking.

THE END


End file.
